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THE 


DESIRE  OF  REPUTATION; 


•&]&  .&  ID)  ID)  El  IS  © 


BEFORE 


THE    PHOENIX    AND    UNION    SOCIETIES 


O.F, 


HAMILTON  COLLEGE, 
JULY   28,    1841. 


BY    ALBERT    BARNES 


Wie  cin  rcdlicher  Mann,  den  Verlcumder  umwolken,  verachtet 
Sich  zu  vortheidigen,  schweigt;  denn  bald  verzieht  das  Gewolk  sicb. 

Klopstock's  Messiah,  Geeang  xvi. 


PUBLISHED  BY  REQUEST  OF  THE  SOCIETIES. 


$!)ilatielj)!)fa: 

PRINTED    BY   I.    ASHMEAD    &   CO. 

184  1. 


t/£ 


•  •-.-• 


THE  DESIRE  OF  REPUTATION. 


in~&  V 


The  subject  on  which  I  propose  to  address  you  at  this 
time,  is,  The  desire  of  reputation.  My  aim  will  be  ac- 
complished if  I  can  set  before  you  the  reasons  why  that 
desire  is  implanted  in  the  human  bosom;  its  value  as  a 
principle  of  action;  the  modifications  under  which  it  ap- 
pears, and  the  perversions  to  which  it  is  liable;  the  true 
principles  which  are  to  guide  us  in  seeking  it,  and  the  field 
which  is  now  open,  especially  in  this  country,  to  secure  an 
honoured  name. 

I  have  selected  this  subject  because  there  is  not  a  heart 
before  me  that  does  not  beat  with  a  generous  desire  to  be 
known  and  to  be  remembered ;  because  there  is  no  aspira- 
tion of  the  bosom  that  is  more  likely  to  become  perverted, 
and  to  be  a  source  of  injury;  because,  for  the  young  espe- 
cially, it  is  desirable  that  the  proper  metes  and  limits  of  its 
indulgence  should  be  laid  down  with  care;  and  because  I 
am  persuaded,  when  properly  understood,  it  may  be  made 
an  important  auxiliary  in  the  cause  of  learning,  patriotism, 
virtue,  and  even  true  religion.  I  will  not  despise  or  con- 
demn any  thing  which  I  believe  to  be  an  original  law  of 
our  nature,  however  it  may  have  been  abused ;  I  will  not 
believe  that  any  thing  which  God  has  implanted  in  our 
bosoms  may  not  contribute  to  the  most  exalted  excellence 
of  man. 
The  desire  of  an  honoured  name  exists  in  all.     It  is  an 


f*7998> 


original  principle  in  every  mind,  and  lives  often  when  every 
other  generous  principle  has  been  obliterated.  It  is  the 
wish  to  be  known  and  respected  by  others ;  to  extend  the 
knowledge  of  our  existence  beyond  our  individual  con- 
sciousness of  being;  to  be  remembered,  at  least,  for  a 
little  while  after  we  are  dead.  Next  to  the  dread  of  anni- 
hilation— the  most  fearful  thought  which  crosses  the  human 
soul— we  dread  the  .immediate  extinction  of  our  names 
w6eo»  we  4te"  :  $#•£  Would  not  have  the  earth  at  once  made 
.leye!  pyQF.our.  guawjs<  *we  would  not  have  the  spot  where 
'•we* sle*ep* -at* oh €€f  fofcgoften;  we  would  not  have  the  last 
traces  of  our  existence  at  once  obliterated  from  the  me- 
mory of  the  living  world. 

I  need  not  go  into  an  argument  to  prove  that  this  desire 
exists  in  the  human  soul.  Each  one  has  only  to  look  into 
his  own  heart  to  find  it  always  there  in  living  power  and  in 
controlling  influence.  I  need  not  ask  you  to  cast  your  eyes 
upon  the  pages  of  history  to  see  the  proofs  that  the  desire 
has  found  a  home  in  the  heart  of  man.  I  need  not  point 
you  to  the  distinguished  heroes,  orators  and  poets  of 
past  or  of  modern  times ;  nor  need  I  attempt  to  trace  its 
operations  in  animating  to  deeds  of  noble  daring,  or  its 
influence  on  the  beautiful  productions  of  the  chisel  or  of 
song.  Ovid  showed  it  when  looking  down  into  far  distant 
ages,  and  anticipating  the  judgment  of  future  times,  he 


said: 


Jamque  opus  exegi:  quod  nee  Jovis  ira,  nee  ignes, 
Nee  poterit  ferrum,  nee  edax  abolere  vetustas, 
Cum  volet  ilia  dies,  qua  nil  nisi  corporis  hujus 
Jus  habet,  incerti  spatium  mihi  finiat  sevi: 
Parte  tamen  meliore  mei  super  alta  perennis 
Astra  ferar:  nomenque  erit  indelebile  nostrum. 
Quaque  patet  domitis  Romana  potentia  terris, 
Ore  leg-ar  populi:  perque  omnia  saecula  fama 
(Si  quid  habent  veri  vatum  prsesagia,)  vivam. 

Metamor.  xv.  871. 


Horace  expressed  the  same  emotion,  and  the  same  con- 
viction that  he  would  be  remembered,  in  the  beautiful  lan- 
guage 

«*  Jamque  exegi  monumentum  sere  perennius." 

Milton  was  warmed  by  the  same  generous  flame,  and 
felt  that  there  dwelt  within  him  the  innate  power  of  rearing 
a  monument  which  would  convey  his  name  to  latest  times, 
when  he  uttered  this  sentiment :  "  I  began  to  assent  to  my 
friends  here  at  home,  and  not  less  to  an  inward  prompting, 
which  now  grew  daily  upon  me,  that  by  labour  and  intense 
study  (which  I  take  to  be  my  portion  in  this  life)  joined 
with  the  strongest  propensity  of  nature,  I  might  perhaps 
leave  something  so  written  to  after  times,  as  they  should 
not  willingly  let  it  die."*  Klopstock,  in  one  of  his  best 
odes,  has  described  the  instinctive  desire  of  future  reputa- 
tion, and  of  living  in  the  memory  of  posterity,  when  found- 
ed on  a  virtuous  principle: 

"  Sweet  are  the  thrills,  the  silver  voice  of  fame 

Triumphant  through  the  bounding-  bosom  darts! 
And  immortality !  how  proud  an  aim ! 

What  noble  toil  to  spur  the  noblest  hearts! 
By  charm  of  song  to  live  through  future  time, 

To  hear,  still  spurning  death's  invidious  ^troke, 
Enraptur'd  quoirs  rehearse  one's  name  sublime, 

E'en  from  the  mansions  of  the  grave  invoke: 
Within  the  tender  heart  e'en  then  to  rear 

Thee,  love !  thee,  virtue !  fairest  growth  of  heaven ! 
O  this,  indeed,  is  worthy  men's  career; 

This  is  the  toil  to  noblest  spirits  given." 

Dr.  GooD.f 


The  Reason  of  Ch.  Gov.  urged  against  Prelacy.  B.  xi.  Intro, 
f  Reizvoll  klinget  des  Ruhms  lockender  Silberton 
In  das  schlagende  Hertz,  und  Unsterblichkeit 

1st  ein  Gedanke, 

1st  des  Schweisses  der  edlen  werth! 


The  desire  of  a  grateful  remembrance  when  we  are 
dead  lives  in  every  human  bosom.  The  earth  is  full  of 
the  memorials  which  have  been  erected  as  the  effect  of  that 
desire:  and  though  thousands  of  the  monuments  that  had 
been  reared  by  anxious  care  and  toil ;  by  deeds  of  valour 
in  the  battle-field;  or  by  early  efforts  at  distinction  in  the 
forum,  have  perished;  still  we  cannot  traverse  a  land  where 
the  indications  of  this  deep-rooted  desire  do  not  meet  us 
on  every  side.  The  once  lofty  column,  now  broken  and 
decaying;  the  marble  from  which  the  name  has  been  obli- 
terated by  time;  the  splendid  mausoleum,  standing  over 
remains  long  since  forgotten;  and  the  lofty  pyramid,  though 
the  name  of  its  builder  is  no  longer  known;  each  one  shows 
how  deeply  this  desire  once  fixed  itself  in  some  human 
heart.  Every  work  of  art;  every  temple,  and  statue; 
every  book  on  which  we  carelessly  cast  the  eye  as  we 
pass  along  the  alcoves  of  a  great  library,  is  probably  a 
monument  of  this  desire  to  be  remembered  when  life  is 
gone.  Every  rose  or  honey-suckle  that  we  plant  over  the 
grave  of  a  friend  is  but  a  response  to  the  desire  not  to  be 
forgotten  which  once  warmed  the  cold  heart  beneath.  And 
who  would  be  willing  to  be  forgotten?  Who  could  endure 
the  thought  that  when  he  is  committed  to  the  earth  no  tear 
would  ever  fall  on  his  grave;  no  thought  of  a  friend  ever 
be  directed  there ;  and  that  the  traveller  would  never  be 
told  who  is  the  sleeper  there  ? — Even  the  poor  slave  that 
desires  to  be  remembered  by  his  fellow-slave  when  he  is 


Durch  der  Lieder  Gewalt,  bey  der  Urenkelin 

Son  und  Tochter  noch  seyn,  mit  der  Entzuckung"  Ton 

Oft  beym  Namen  genennet, 

Oft  gerufen  vom  Grabe  her. 
Dann  ihr  sanfteres  Hertz  bilden,  und  Liebe,  dich 
Fromme  Tug-end,  dich,  auch  giessen  ins  safte  Hertz, 

1st,  beym  Himmel!  nicht  wenig! 

1st  des  Schweisses  der  Edlen  werth! 

Der  Ziircliersee. 


dead,  feels  the  working  of  this  mighty  principle,  and  is  a 
man — for  the  brute  never  has  it — and  he  has  in  this,  at 
least,  the  impress  of  human  nature  enstamped  by  his  Maker 
on  his  soul. 

To  this  universal  desire  in  the  bosom  of  man  to  be  re- 
membered when  he  is  dead,  the  living  world  is  not  reluctant 
to  respond;  for  were  there  no  higher  principle,  the  living 
wish  to  ask  at  the  hands  of  others  what  they  are  desired  to 
show  for  the  departed.  Affection,  therefore,  goes  forth  and 
plants  the  rose  on  the  grave ;  rears  the  marble,  moulded  into 
breathing  forms,  over  the  dust;  and,  like  Old  Mortality, 
cuts  the  letters  deeper  when  the  storms  of  time  efface  them; 
and  hands  down  in  verse,  and  song,  and  marble;  on  the 
lyre  and  the  monument,  the  names  of  those  who  have  de- 
served well  of  rnankind. 

"  Patriots  have  toiled,  and  in  their  country's  cause 
Bled  nobly  ;  and  their  deeds,  as  they  deserve, 
Receive  proud  recompense.     We  give  in  charge 
Their  names  to  the  sweet  lyre.     Th'  historic  muse, 
Proud  of  the  treasure,  marches  with  it  down 
To  latest  times;  and  Sculpture,  in  her  turn, 
Gives  bond  in  stone  and  ever-during  brass, 
To  guard  them,  and  t*  immortalise  her  trust; 
But  fairer  wreaths  are  due,  though  never  paid, 
To  those,  who  posted  at  the  shrine  of  truth, 
Have  fallen  in  her  defence." 

Task,  B.  v. 

Why  is  this  passion  implanted  in  the  human  bosom? 
Why  so  universal?  Why  is  it  seen  in  so  many  forms?  I 
answer,  It  is  one  of  the  proofs  of  man's  immortality ;  the 
strong,  instinctive,  universal  desire  to  live — and  to  live  on 
for  ever.  It  is  that  to  which  philosophers  have  all  along 
appealed,  in  the  lack  of  better  evidence,  to  sustain  the  hope 
that  man  would  survive  the  tomb.  It  is  the  argument  on 
which  the  eye  of  Plato  fixed  to  sustain  his  own  soul  in 
the  darkness  which  enveloped  him,  and  which  has  been 


8 

put  in  the  mouth  of  every  school-boy,  in  the  language  of 
Addison. 


«< Whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond  desire, 

This  longing-  after  immortality? 

Or  whence  this  secret  dread,  and  inward  horror, 

Of  falling  into  naught?    Why  shrinks  the  soul 

Back  on  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction? 

'Tis  the  divinity  that  stirs  within  us; 

'Tis  heaven  itself  that  points  out  an  hereafter, 

And  intimates  eternity  to  man." 

Cato,  Act  v. 


And  while  this  desire  lingers  in  the  human  soul,  as  it 
always  will,  man  cannot  forget  that  he  is  immortal;  it 
will  be  in  vain  to  attempt  to  satisfy  him  that  he  wholly 
ceases  to  be  when  the  body  dies.  He  will  not,  he  cannot 
believe  it.  He  would  not  always  sleep.  He  would  not  al- 
ways be  forgotten.  He  would  live  again : — live  on  in  the 
memory  of  his  fellow-man  as  long  as  the  flowers  can  be 
made  to  bloom,  or  the  marble  to  perpetuate  his  name ;  and 
then  still  live  on  when  "  seas  shall  waste,  and  skies  in  smoke 
decay." 

Nor  is  this  the  only  design  of  implanting  this  desire  of 
remembrance  in  the  bosom  of  man.  It  is  not  merely  to  be 
an  argument  for,  and  a  memento  of  our  immortality  ;  it  is 
to  be  one  of  the  means  to  excite  us  to  virtue  and  to  noble 
deeds.  It  is  the  operation  of  one  of  the  beautiful  laws  of 
our  nature,  though,  as  we  shall  see,  sadly  perverted,  design- 
ed to  stimulate  us  to  great  and  generous  efforts.  Men  may 
call  it  selfish — and  so  it  may  become.  They  may  call  it 
ambition — and  so  it  often  is.  But  who  knows  not  that  the 
worst  passions  are  usually  the  perversion  of  that  which  is 
most  generous  and  exalted  1  And  who  knows  not  that  one 
of  the  objects  of  all  the  lessons  of  experience,  philosophy, 
and  religion  is  to  call  man  back  from  the  erratic  course  on 
which  a  wicked  heart  has  thrown  him,  to  the  operation  of 


the  simple  laws  of  nature ;  to  bind  the  lurid  meteor  within 
a  regular  orbit,  and  to  light  it  up  from  a  pure  and  steady 
central  sun?  This  desire  of  reputation;  this  wish  to  be 
remembered,  has  been  implanted  in  the  soul  to  deter  from 
vice  by  the  dread  of  disgrace ;  to  prompt  to  actions  wor- 
thy to  be  remembered  by  the  fear  of  being  forgotten ;  to 
call  forth  the  noble  powers  of  the  soul  by  a  wish,  like  Mil- 
ton's, to  achieve  some  work  "  that  the  world  shall  not  wil- 
lingly let  die."  Point  me  to  a  man,  young  or  old,  in  whose 
bosom  this  desire  is  extinct,  and  you  have  designated  a  man 
either  abandoned  to  despair,  or  in  whom  virtue  is  dead. 

Every  law  of  our  nature  is  of  value,  and  has  an  impor- 
tant place  in  the  great  purpose  of  promoting  the  interest  of 
society.  In  the  principles  of  human  action,  what  is  the 
value  of  a  desire  of  reputation?  What  influence  should 
it  be  allowed  to  have  on  a  young  man  starting  on  a  career 
of  public  life  ?  I  have  found  in  my  own  experience,  and 
as  far  as  my  observation  has  extended,  I  have  seen  that  the 
world  is  favourably  disposed  towards  young  men.  There 
are  no  interests  in  society  so  valuable  that  the  world  is  not 
willing  to  commit  them  to  their  hands,  when  they  are  satis- 
fied that  they  are  qualified  to  defend  them,  and  to  transmit 
them  to  future  times.  All  the  blood-bought  blessings  of 
freedom ;  all  the  endowments  of  colleges  and  schools ;  all 
the  offices  in  the  state;  and  all  the  interests  of  religion  and 
benevolence,  they  are  willing  to  entrust  to  the  young,  so 
soon  as  they  have  evidence  that  they  will  be  safe  in  their 
hands, — and  then  they  who  have  toiled  and  bled  for  these 
things  will  lie  calmly  down  and  die.  Judges  and  senators 
are  willing  to  vacate  their  seats,  and  conquerors,  whom  no 
foe  could  subdue,  are  willing  to  resign  their  swords,  and  the 
ministers  of  religion,  to  whom  the  cause  of  truth  is  dearer 
than  life,  are  willing  to  vacate  their  pulpits  to  enter  them  no 
more,  when  those  now  young  show  that  they  are  worthy  of 
the  trust.  But  they  ask  evidence  of  this.  They  demand 
that  the  young  shall  show  that  they  are  deserving  of  confi- 
2 


10 

dence  before  these  great  interests  are  committed  to  them ; 
they  ask  such  a   'reputation'  of  those  advancing  to  re- 
ceive these  honours,  as  shall  show  that  the  trust  will  not 
be  endangered,  before  it  is  yielded.     To  secure  this,  there 
is  in  this  community  an  eye  of  unslumbering  vigilance  on 
every  young  man,  from  which  he  cannot   escape.     The 
world  watches  his  movements;  learns  his  character;  marks 
his  defects ;  records  and  remembers  his  virtues ;  asks  the 
question  about  the  reputation  with  which  he  enters  on  pub- 
lic life,  and  all  with  reference  to  the  great  interests  which 
are  soon  to  be  committed  to  the  hands  of  the  advancing 
generation.     There  is  an  unseen,  but  withering  influence, 
from  which  he  can  never  escape,  that  attends  every  young 
man  who  is  idle,  dissipated,  or  unprincipled,  that  will  go 
with  him,  like  an  evil  genius,  to  the  most  distant  part  of 
our  own  land  or  to  distant  climes;   that  will  meet  him 
even  when  he  regards  himself  as  among  strangers;  that 
will,  unperceived,  cross  oceans  with  him,  and  start  up  to 
meet  him  in  polar  snows  or  on  barren  sands;   that  will 
meet  him  should  he  wander  on  the  Alps  or  by  the  side  of 
the  Senegal   or   the  Ganges;  or   should  he  seek  to  hide 
himself  in  the  crowded  foreign  metropolis.     That  evil  in- 
fluence he  cannot  live  down,  nor  can  he  flee  away  from  it. 
Aaron  Burr  met  such  an  influence  at  Paris — a  wretched 
fugitive  and  an  outcast,  without  a  friend ;    and  Benedict 
Arnold  could  have  found  no  nook  of  earth  where  it  would 
not  have  followed  him.     And  in  like  manner,  there  is  a 
happy  influence,  of  more  value  than  the  fabled  "  Genius" 
of  Socrates,  that  will  go  with  every  young  man  who,  by  an 
early  life  of  virtue,  has  shown  himself  worthy  of  the  confi- 
dence of  mankind,  and  that  will  attend  him  around  the 
globe. 

In  this  land,  perhaps  more  than  in  any  other,  every  thing 
in  life  depends  on  a  good  name ;  a  fair  reputation.  It  is  a 
principle  of  our  constitution  that  office  shall  be  conferred 
only  on  those  who  have  evinced  by  their  lives  that  it  may 


11 

be  safely  confided  to  them,  and  that  it  will  be  not  an  inap- 
propriate recompense  for  public  services.  From  the  highest 
in  the  gift  of  the  people  to  the  lowest,  there  is  not  one  that 
is  not  designed  to  be  bestowed  on  those  and  those  only  who 
are  called  to  it  by  previous  tried  fidelity.  No  advantage  of 
birth  or  blood ;  no  hereditary  rank  or  name ;  no  merit  of 
an  ancestor  limits  its  bestowment,  or  confers  any  factitious 
facilities  for  reaching  it.  And  in  like  manner  there  is  not 
an  office  in  our  colleges  or  schools ;  there  is  not  a  pulpit  in 
the  land ;  there  is  not  an  honour  which  the  bar  or  the  pro- 
fession of  medicine  has  to  bestow,  to  which  there  can  be  a 
hereditary  claim,  or  to  which  the  ascent  is  not  to  be  made 
by  slow  and  steady  individual  worth.  Public  favours  are 
designed  to  be,  and  to  an  extent  which  few  young  men  un- 
derstand, will  be,  graduated  by  the  claim  to  those  favours 
which  shall  be  established  by  a  character  honourably  gain- 
ed in  early  life.  Talent  will  not  answer  the  purpose  of  a 
good  name ;  nor  can  gold  or  diamonds  purchase  what  the 
community  will  gladly  confer  on  him  who  has  a  character 
which  shows  that  he  is  entitled  to  its  confidence. 

Such  is  the  original  principle  with  which  man  is  endowed; 
and  such  is  its  value  in  the  world.  Yet  that  principle  so 
valuable,  and  designed  to  accomplish  so  much  in  the  wel- 
fare of  man,  I  need  not  say  has  much  more  seldom  appear* 
ed  among  men  in  a  pure  and  healthful  form  than  in  a  form 
perverted  and  ruinous.  It  is  of  importance,  therefore,  that 
we  examine  some  of  the  modifications  which  it  has  as- 
sumed, and  the  parts  which  it  has  played  in  the  great  trans- 
actions of  mankind. 

The  principle  of  our  nature  to  which  I  am  referring  is, 
the  desire  of  being  known  and  esteemed  by  others ;  of  be- 
ing remembered  when  we  are  dead.  The  form  of  the 
principle,  as  it  is  implanted  in  the  heart  of  man  by  the 
Creator,  is  the  desire  of  an  honoured  remembrance  on  ac- 
count of  virtue  and  true  worth ;  that  which  will  lead  a 
friend  to  drop  a  tear  or  plant  a  flower  over  the  grave ;  that 


12 

sacred  and  cherished  recollection  which  the  world  will  not 
"  willingly  let  die." — The  perverted  forms  in  which  it  ap- 
pears among  men  is  now  the  object  of  our  contemplation. 

First,  it  appears  in  the  form  of  ambition — perhaps  the 
widest  passion,  as  it  is  one  of  the  earliest,  that  has  swayed 
the  heart  of  man.  It  is  the  desire  of  power,  of  glory,  of 
fame — 

"  That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds." 

It  is  the  wish  for  distinction,  regardless  of  the  rights  and 
welfare  of  others,  of  the  cause  of  justice  or  liberty,  of  the 
moral  worth  which,  joined  with  talent,  alone  should  entitle 
man  to  the  grateful  remembrance  of  his  species.  It  is  the 
wish  to  reign  and  rule ;  the  wish  to  evince  such  talent  as  to 
command  the  applause  of  mankind ;  to  play  such  a  part  on 
the  theatre  of  human  affairs,  that  however  much  men  may 
wish  to  do  it,  they  cannot  forget  the  aspirant  for  fame.  To 
record  the  deeds  of  such  mgn  has  unhappily  been  the  main 
province  of  history.  The  mind  sickens  when  it  contem- 
plates the  past:  and  when  we  would  ask  how  man  advanced 
from  a  state  of  barbarism  through  the  various  stages  of  so- 
ciety; how  the  arts  flourished,  and  how  science  spread  her 
triumphs ;  what  regions  the  fleets  for  discovery  or  for  com- 
merce visited;  and  the  successive  steps  by  which  man 
learned  the  arts  of  healing,  or  manufactures,  or  music,  or 
poetry,  we  become  almost  disgusted  with  the  records  of  the 
race,  when  we  find  the  page  of  history  occupied  only  with 
the  names  of  heroes,  and  written  with  a  pen  dipped  in  blood, 
as  though  nothing  were  worth  recording  but  prowess  and 
skill  in  butchering  men.  It  was  not  only  in  the  darker  re- 
gions of  the  world  beneath  us,  that  the  feeling  has  been 
evinced  which  Milton  has  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  Arch- 
Apostate — 


"  The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a  heaven  of  hell,  a  hell  of  heaven. 


13 


What  matter  where,  if  I  be  still  the  same, 
And  what  I  should  be;  all  but  less  than  he 
Whom  thunder  hath  made  greater? 

In  my  choice, 
To  reign  is  worth  ambition,  though  in  hell ; 
Better  to  reign  in  hell  than  serve  in  heaven." 

Pab.  Lost,  B.  i. 


The  history  of  the  world,  as  now  recorded,  has  been  a 
history  of  wars;  of  the  fruits  of  mad  ambition.  Historians, 
it  would  seem,  have  been  employed  merely  to  attend  the 
march  of  the  conqueror,  and  record  the  achievements  of 
battle;  and  poets  merely  to  celebrate  their  praises.  The 
muse  has  told  us  of  the  talent  of  distinguished  leaders ;  of 
the  skilful  array  of  the  battle ;  of  the  deeds  of  heroism  on 
the  field  of  blood;  of  the  shouts  of  victory;  of  the  trium- 
phant and  glorious  return  of  the  conqueror.  Yet,  one  of 
the  most  melancholy  spectacles  on  earth,  had  all  men  right 
feelings,  would  be  the  return  of  a  mighty  conqueror,  or  a 
march  in  order  of  battle — files  of  men  with  swords,  and 
bayonets,  and  battle-axes — and  it  requires  all  the  animation 
of  martial  music,  and  all  the  tinsel  of  dress  and  caparison, 
and  all  the  magnificence  of  banners,  and  all  the  enthusi- 
asm of  numbers,  and  all  the  stern  conviction  of  necessity, 
to  make  such  a  procession  tolerable  in  a  Christian  land. 
For  it  reminds  us  that  those  swords  are  made  to  drink  up 
blood;  and  those  bayonets  to  pierce  the  hearts  of  husbands, 
and  lovers,  and  fathers;  and  those  battle-axes  to  cleave 
down  brothers  and  sons,  and  the  whole  array  to  butcher 
mankind.  War  is  a  horrid  trade : — a  "  game  which,  were 
their  subjects  wise,  kings  would  not  play  at."  Victory 
in  war  is  a  horrid  victory;  and  its  whole  history  is  the 
darkest  part  of  the  record  of  the  world.  Future  ages  will 
yet  go  over  the  fields  of  Marathon,  and  Leuctra,  and  Wa- 
terloo with  horror,  and  read  the  records  of  the  past  with 
amazement  that  such  deeds  were  enacted  in  the  world. 
The  time  will  come  when  the  desire  to  rear  a  monument  by 


14 

conquests  in  war  to  perpetuate  the  name,  will  give  way  to 
the  desire  to  be  remembered  as  the  benefactor  of  the  spe- 
cies, and  when  for  such  a  wreath  as  entwines  the  brow  of 
Howard  or  Wilberforce,  he  who  desires  to  be  remembered 
would  be  willing  to  exchange  all  the  trophies  of  ancient 
battle  ever  gained,  and  all  the  diadems  of  glory  that  ever 
sparkled  on  the  brow  of  a  conqueror.  It  is  well  for  those  who 
are  preparing  for  public  life  now  to  know,  that  if  they  are 
to  gain  any  reputation  which  is  to  be  of  permanent  value, 
it  is  to  be  in  measures  adapted  to  bless  and  not  to  destroy 
mankind.     Glory  enough  has  been  won  in  the  field  of  car- 
nage.   Talent  for  slaughter  has  been  evinced,  in  other  days, 
far  beyond  what  may  be  expected  to  be  equalled  hereafter ; 
and  no  young  aspirant  for  fame  can  hope  to  rival  now 
Epaminondas  or  Scipio,  Hannibal,  Alexander,  or  Napoleon. 
The  world,  too,  is  changing  its  estimates  of  such  deeds.    In 
reading  the  history  of  the  past,  there  is  an  increasing  pro- 
pensity to  pass  over  the  pages  that  contain  the  records  of 
battles  and  sieges,  and  the  disgusting  details  of  the  numbers 
of  slaughtered  men,  and  to  fix  the  eye  on  the  scattered  and 
comparatively  few  notices  that  record  the  advance  of  lite- 
rature and  the  arts,  and  that  tell  of  commerce,  and  lan- 
guage, and  customs,  and  inventions  that  went  to  enlarge  the 
sphere  of  knowledge,  and  to  mark  the  progress  of  domestic 
comfort.     A  man  with  just  views  of  the  relative  beauty, 
grandeur,  and  true  worth  of  things,  would  rather  look  in 
upon  the  cottage  of  contentment  and  peace  in  ancient  Ar- 
cadia, than  on  the  triumphal  procession  of  the  Caesars;  he 
would  rather  sit  down  in  the  peaceful  dwelling  described  in 
Burns'  "  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  than  to  have  seen  the 
glory  of  Napoleon  at  Austerlitz  or  Marengo.  The  sentiments 
of  the  world  change  about  "  glory;"  and  now,  as  fast  as  any 
thing  else  in  this  changing  age,  the  love  of  martial  song  and 
story  is  giving  place  to  the  descriptions  of  the  arts  and  en- 
joyments of  peace.     Homer's  beauty  and   grandeur,  and 
not  his  description  of  battles,  will  make  his  name  live  to  all 


15 

times ;  and  the  affections  of  mankind  will  more  and  more 
cluster  around  Burns — who  sings  the  feelings  of  those  who 
never  sought  glory  in  deeds  of  blood ;  on  Wordsworth,  the 
poet  that  describes  humble,  but  virtuous  life;  on  Cowper, 
that  tells  of  nature  just  as  she  is. 

The  love  of  battle,  and  of  fame  in  the  battle-field,  will 
not  linger  long  in  the  world.  I  know  not  that  the  youth 
of  my  country  are  in  any  danger  of  being  improperly  in- 
fluenced by  a  regard  to  military  fame.  But  the  love  of 
honour  or  reputation  has  assumed  another  form  in  days 
that  are  gone  by,  whose  remains  now  linger  among  us  with 
more  tenacity.  I  allude  to  the  form  which  was  evinced  in 
the  days  of  chivalry.  It  was  founded  on  generous  feelings. 
It  grew  up  when  there  were  no  laws  to  protect  character ; 
when  there  was  no  intelligent  public  opinion  and  virtuous 
sentiment  to  which  a  man  might  safely  leave  his  reputation. 
It  was  sustained  by  all  the  feelings  of  piety  of  the  age,  and 
by  a  profound  veneration  for  God  and  his  government — a 
veneration  extending  so  far  that  it  was  believed  he  would 
interpose  by  miracle  to  defend  the  innocent.  It  was  the 
desire  of  an  honoured  name,  and  a  belief  that  when  that 
name  was  attacked,  it  was  to  be  settled  by  an  appeal  to 
arms,  and  that  the  God  of  justice,  who  held  the  scales  even- 
poised,  would  interpose  to  decide  in  favour  of  the  innocent. 
In  tilts  and  tournaments ;  the  ordeal  or  the  duel,  the  idea 
was  not  that  the  individual  took  his  reputation  into  his 
own  keeping,  or  that  it  depended  on  the  valour  of  his  own 
arm,  but  that  it  was  in  the  holy  keeping  of  God,  and  that 
he  would  interpose,  and  decide  according  to  truth.  The  in- 
stitution of  chivalry  and  knight-errantry,  therefore,  embodied 
all  the  piety  as  well  as  the  honour  of  the  age ;  it  embraced 
reverence  for  the  divine  government  as  well  as  respect  for 
valour;  it  reposed  on  what  was  believed  to  be  a  righteous 
cause  as  well  as  on  the  strength  of  the  arms  in  battle.  It 
was  the  champion  of  right;  the  vindicator  of  innocence; 
the  punisher  of  wrongs ;  the  patron  of  courtesy ;  as  well  as 


16 

the  claimant  to  valour.  It  lived  indeed  in  the  smiles  of  the 
fair;  but  it  sought  also  the  approbation  of  heaven.  It  aimed 
at  invincible  valour,  but  it  aimed  at  what  the  warrior  never 
did,  the  favour  of  heaven  and  the  vindication  of  right.  It 
had  indeed,  like  the  valour  of  the  warrior,  no  connexion 
with  science,  or  with  the  arts.  It  founded  no  schools  or 
colleges — but  it  destroyed  none ;  it  planted  no  vineyards  or 
olive-yards — but  it  did  not  destroy  them  ;  it  built  no  cities  of 
commerce  or  hamlets  of  peace — but  it  did  not  go  forth  with 
a  torch  like  the  warrior  to  lay  those  which  existed  waste. 
It  was  the  protector,  not  the  originator;  the  patron,  not  the 
founder. 

Why,  it  may  be  asked,  is  this  remote  and  almost  forgot- 
ten theme  alluded  to  here  1  What  connexion  has  it  with 
the  subject  before  us — the  desire  of  reputation?  I  answer, 
because  it  was  one  of  the  ways  in  which  for  centuries  a 
reputation  was  sought  and  defended;  and  because,  more 
than  almost  any  other  institution  of  ancient  times,  the  reason 
for  which  has  passed  away,  it  still  lingers  among  us.  The 
desire  of  vindicating  one's  honour  and  reputation  by  an  ap- 
peal to  arms,  still  lingers  around  the  capitol,  and  maintains 
its  hold  in  the  remotest  parts  of  our  Republic.  It  lives  as 
the  form  of  what  it  once  was — though  a  form  without  the 
soul — the  purpose  of  vindicating  personal  honour  without 
the  piety  or  the  appeal  to  God.  Once  the  duellist  expected 
-the  interposition  of  heaven.  It  was  a  part  of  his  religion. 
That  expectation  now  is  all  gone.  It  is  no  longer  an  ap- 
peal to  God  as  the  avenger ;  it  is  dependence  on  personal 
valour,  and  on  the  skill  of  the  marksman.  Once,  in  public 
estimation,  it  settled  the  great  question  of  right;  now  it 
proves  nothing  but  the  superior  skill  of  the  successful  com- 
batant, the  superior  steadiness  of  the  nerve  or  the  eye — a 
superiority  often  which  is  not  the  index  of  innocence  but 
of  more  practised  guilt.  That  Hamilton  fell  was  not  be- 
cause he  was  a  less  righteous  man ;  it  was  because  his  ad- 
versary was  a  more  practised  marksman,  and  had  a  pur- 


17 

pose  of  vengeance  and  of  death  that  fixed  the  eye  and 
nerved  the  arm. 

I  would  not  allude  to  this  mode  in  which  reputation  is 
vindicated,  were  it  not  that  there  are  few  dangers  that  yet 
encompass  the  path  of  those  who  are  preparing  for  public 
life  more  likely  to  assail  them  than  this.  It  lingers  still 
among  our  countrymen.  When  we  had  hoped  that  it  had 
died  away,  we  are  shocked  to  learn  that  some  man,  whose 
life  was  deemed  valuable,  has  fallen  as  another  victim, 
showing  that  this  deference  to  the  "  laws  of  honour"  still 
lives  among  us.  In  common  with  others,  I  honour  true 
independence.  If  there  is  any  man  at  whose  feet  I  would 
bow  down  with  highest  expressions  of  regard,  it  is  the 
man  described  by  Horace — 

Justuro  et  tenacem  propositi  virum 
Non  civium  ardor  prava  jubentium, 
Non  vultus  instantis  tyranni 

Mente  quatit  solida,  neque  Auster 
Dux  inquieti  turbidus  Adrise, 
Nee  fulminantis  magna  Jovis  manus: 
Si  iractis  illabatur  orbis, 
Impavidum  ferient  ruinae— 

Hon.  Car.  Lib.  Hi.  3. 

n 

the  man  like 

"  Mount  Atlas: 
Whilst  storms  and  tempests  thunder  on  its  brows, 
And  oceans  break  their  billows  at  its  feet, 
It  stands  unmoved,  and  glories  in  its  height. 
His  towering  soul, 
Midst  all  the  shocks  and  injuries  of  fortune, 
Rises  superior"-^ 

Cato,  Act  ii. 

But  I  need  not  pause  here  to  say  what  true  independence 
is.  It  is  that  trait  of  mind  which,  while  it  renders  due  re- 
spect for  the  opinions  of  others,  yet  seeks  to  find  the  truth, 
and  which  holds  it  fast  at  every  sacrifice.     It  is  not  to  be 


IS 

turned  away  from  what  is  true  and  right  by  flattery  Or  fear; 
by  the  dread  of  contempt  for  singularity  or  of  persecution; 
by  the  hope  of  life  or  the  apprehension  of  death.  It  is  that 
which,  strong  in  conscious  rectitude,  is  not  humbled  and 
abashed  though  it  stands  alone;  which,  secure  in  the  belief 
of  uprightness  of  intention,  can  follow  out  its  own  convic- 
tions, though  the  world  may  smile  or  frown.  You  would 
not  select  the  duellist  for  a  man  of  independence.  It  is  his 
want  of  it  that  leads  him  into  the  field — for  he  oftenest  goes 
there  against  his  own  convictions  of  right,  sacrificing  his  in- 
dependence to  a  law  of  honour,  whose  wrong  and  folly  he  ad- 
mits, and  to  the  fear  of  a  charge  of  cowardice  from  his  friends. 
Hamilton  left  his  recorded  sentiments  against  the  practice 
which  cost  him  his  life ;  and  fell  a  sacrifice  to  the  custom, 
because  even  such  a  brave  man  did  not  dare  to  avow  that 
sentiment  openly,  and  to  meet  the  scorn  of  one  portion  of 
mankind.  "  My  religious  and  moral  principles,"  says  he  in 
a  paper  found  after  his  death,  "  are  strongly  opposed  to  the 
practice  of  duelling,  and  it  would  ever  give  me  pain  to  be 
obliged  to  shed  the  blood  of  a  fellow-creature  in  a  private 
combat  forbidden  by  the  laws."*  To  stand  up  against  pre- 
vailing but  bad  customs;  to  brave  the  smile  of  contempt 
and  the  finger  of  scorn  when  one  knows  that  he  is  right ; 
to  bid  the  world  laugh  <  n  while  we  pursue  "  the  even  tenor 
of  our  way,"  often  requires  a  rarer  courage  than  to  face 
the  cannon's  mouth,  or  to  expose  the  life  to  the  fire  of  a 
skilful  marksman. 

I  have  spoken  of  two  methods  in  which  men  regard  their 
reputation — the  one,  when  they  seek  a  reputation  in  climb- 
ing up  the  steeps  of  ambition,  though  it  lead  them  through 
fields  of  blood  ;  and  the  other,  when  it  leads  them  to  vindi- 
cate their  insulted  honour  in  violation  of  the  laws  of  God 
and  man.  I  might  speak  of  a  third  perversion,  when  it  be- 
comes the  mere  love  of  praise ;  when  the  wish  of  com- 

*  Life  of  Col.  Burr,  vol.  ii.  318,  319. 


19 

mendation  becomes  the  whole  principle  of  action,  whether 
it  lead  to  the  field,  or  inspire  the  orator,  or  direct  the  inspi- 
rations of  the  poet,  or  urge  on  the  professional  man.  The 
love  of  applause  lies  deep  in  the  human  soul;  and  there  are 
few  whose  virtue  is  made  of  so  stern  material  as  to  resist 
or  survive  its  influence. 

"  O  popular  applause!  what  heart  of  man 

Is  proof  against  thy  sweet  seducing-  charms? 

The  wisest  and  the  best  feel  urgent  need 

Of  all  their  caution  in  thy  gentlest  gales; 

But  swelled  into  a  gust — who  then,  alas! 

With  all  his  canvass  set,  and  inexpert, 

And  therefore  heedless,  can  withstand  thy  power! 

Praise  from  the  rivelled  lips  of  toothless,  bald 

Decrepitude,  and  in  the  looks  of  lean 

And  craving  poverty,  and  the  bow 

Respectful  of  the  smutched  artificer, 

Is  oft  too  welcome,  and  may  disturb 

The  bias  of  the  purpose.     How  much  more 

Poured  forth  by  beauty  splendid  and  polite 

In  language  soft  as  adoration  breathes?" 

Task,  B.  ii. 

Few  are  the  men  who  can  successfully  resist  its  influ- 
ence ;  few  they,  whose  hearts  are  proof  to  the  shouts  which 
lift  the  name  up  to  heaven. 

I  turn  to  another  inquiry — to  the  question,  what  course  a 
young  man  shall  pursue  who  wishes  a  fair  reputation  ?  What 
measures  shall  he  propose  to  himself  as  the  rules  of  life  ? 
What  shall  he  do  when  his  name — as  he  may  expect  it  will 
be — is  attacked?  I  know  of  few  questions  more  impor- 
tant to  those  who  are  entering  on  the  career  of  life ;  and 
I  scarcely  know  of  any  better  service  which  could  be  ren- 
dered to  those  who  are  to  meet  the  roughnesses  and  jost- 
lings  in  the  way  before  them,  than  to  lay  down  a  principle 
which  would  be  a  safe  guide. — I  venture,  then,  on  this  sub- 
ject, so  dear  to  us  all,  to  lay  down  this  proposition,  that  in 
regard  to  the  amount  of  reputation  which  is  due  to  us,  the 


20 

world  will  work  itself  right  That  every  man  will  have  ulti- 
mately the  reputation  which  he  ought  to  have.  That  He 
who  presides  over  the  course  of  events  holds  an  even  ba- 
lance in  his  hand,  and  that  what  is  due  to  every  man  will 
be  determined  by  the  strictest  principles  of  equity.  That 
a  man  who  ought  to  be  esteemed  by  the  world,  ultimately 
will  be ;  and  that  he  whose  name  ought  to  be  covered  with 
infamy,  however  bright  it  may  shine  for  a  while,  will  ulti- 
mately have  a  reputation  black  as  night.  Water  will  find 
its  proper  level ;  and  so  will  the  reputation  of  a  man  in  the 
course  of  events.  The  man  who  ought  to  be  remembered 
with  gratitude,  will  be ;  the  man  whose  name  ought  to  be 
covered  with  infamy,  will  be. 

You  cannot  force  a  reputation  by  artificial  means ;  you 
cannot  make  the  world  do  honour  to  a  name  that  ought  to 
be  dishonoured;  you  cannot  build  a  mausoleum  so  splendid, 
or  rear  a  monument  so  massive  or  so  high,  as  to  perpetuate 
the  memory  of  a  man  who  has  never  done  any  thing  to 
constitute  a  reason  why  he  should  not  be  forgotten. 

This  principle,  which  I  deem  so  important,  you  will  per- 
mit me  for  a  moment  to  illustrate.  I  admit,  indeed,  that  it 
is  easy  to  acquire  celebrity  by  splendid  perverted  talents  ; 
but  it  is  not  possible  to  perpetuate  that  admiration  through 
succeeding  ages.  The  principle,  whose  truth  I  maintain, 
is,  that  the  world  will,  in  the  course  of  time,  work  itself 
right;  that  the  man  who  ought  to  be  remembered  with  ad- 
miration will  be  remembered,  and  that  he  who  ought  to  be 
remembered  with  dishonour  will  have  such  a  bad  immor- 
tality; or  if  he  ought  to  be  forgotten  that  he  will  be  forgot- 
ten. I  know  not  that  this  principle  can  be  expressed  in 
more  terse  and  vigorous  language  than  in  an  ancient  pro- 
verb, which  has  also  the  advantage  of  inspiration.  "  The 
memory  of  the  just  is  blessed;  but  the  name  of  the  wicked 
shall  rot."  Against  this  principle,  indeed,  there  is  a  class 
of  mankind  that  have  been  always  contending;  and  it 
would  almost  seem  sometimes  that  the  principle  was  to  be 


21 

carried  away — as  if  old  ocean,  in  a  furious  tempest,  should 
burst  over  the  iron-bound  coast,  and  sweep  over  every  bar- 
rier. Men  of  giant  minds,  and  giant  wickedness,  who  could 
stamp  with  the  foot  and  whole  nations  would  be  armed  for 
conquest,  and  before  whom  the  mountains  seemed  to  flow 
down  to  make  a  smooth  path  for  their  armies,  and  beneath 
the  tread  of  whose  legions  the  earth  has  trembled,  have 
seemed  to  make  war  also  on  this  great  principle ;  to  esta- 
blish such  a  reputation  as  they  pleased,  and  to  compel  not 
only  their  own  generation  to  honour  them,  but  to  control 
the  opinions  of  all  future  times.  It  would  seem  as  if  they 
must  be  successful.  Their  deeds  are  emblazoned  in  song — 
"married  to  immortal  verse."  They  rear  splendid  arches 
of  victory.  They  raise  the  lofty  column  that  points  to  hea- 
ven, and  cover  it  all  over  with  the  story  of  their  deeds. 
They  build  the  pyramid  to  endure  for  ages ;  or  cause  the 
splendid  mausoleum  to  be  constructed  over  the  place  where 
they  shall  sleep.  They  stamp  the  record  of  their  deeds  on 
their  age  as  if  in  eternal  brass,  and  die  with  the  expectation 
that  all  future  ages  will  honour  their  memory. 

But  it  is  not  in  lofty  arches  or  columns;  in  the  mausoleum 
or  the  pyramid ;  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  even  immortal 
verse — more  enduring  than  all — to  preserve  the  memory  of 
such  men  as  they  wish.  The  arch,  the  pyramid,  the  co- 
lumn, crumble  to  dust;  and  long  before  the  inscription  on 
them  becomes  illegible,  the  world  reverses  the  sentence,  and 
pronounces  their  just  and  unchanging  doom.  Mankind  will 
ultimately  judge  right,  and  place  the  name  on  the  scroll 
where  it  ought  to  stand.  A  proper  sentiment  is  already 
formed  of  Alexander  and  Cagsar;  of  Charles  II.,  and  of 
Henry  VIII. ;  and  is  forming,  with  a  rapidity  which  nothing 
can  check,  of  him  who  was  triumphant  at  Marengo,  but 
who  lost  his  crown  and  his  glory  at  Waterloo.  Remem- 
bered he  may  be,  perhaps,  as  long  as  in  the  wildest  days  of 
his  mad  ambition  he  desired.  We  admit  it.  There  are  two 
men,  at  least,  of  the  generation  which  is  just  gone  by,  that 


22 

will  not  soon  be — one  of  whom  will  never  be  forgotten. 
They  are  Napoleon  and  Washington.  Future  ages  will  see 
them  when  they  look  back  to  these  times ;  but  how  differ- 
ent! The  one  will  appear  in  the  sky  as  a  lurid  meteor, 
dying  away  in  the  distance — the  other  as  a  bright  and  be- 
nignant star,  brighter  and  brighter  with  every  century  that 
the  world  shall  stand  !  So  it  will  be  in  the  walks  of  litera- 
ture and  science.  The  world  will  judge  right.  Gibbon,  of 
splendid  genius,  but  skeptical  and  obscene,  will  descend 
from  his  elevation.  Swift,  a  man  of  fine  talents  and  a  fine 
writer,  has  exiled  himself  already  from  every  respectable 
library  by  his  obscenity ;  and  the  splendid  powers  of  By- 
ron will  not  always  save  him  from  the  neglect  which  pride 
dreaded  more  than  death.  But  not  such  is  the  fame  of 
Locke,  of  Newton,  of  Bacon,  of  Howard,  of  Jenner.  And 
the  fame  of  Milton  too,  the  world  will  not  willingly  let  die. 
He  will  hold  on  his  flight  in  that     * 

"  Adventurous  song", 
That  with  no  middle  course  intends  to  soar 
Above  the  Aonian  mount,  while  it  pursues 
Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme." 

Par.  Lost,  B.  i. 

The  principle  to  which  I  am  referring,  has  had  too  many 
illustrations  to  admit  more  than  a  bare  reference  to  it  now. 
I  might  refer  to  Socrates,  destined  always  to  be  mentioned 
as  the  greatest  and  the  best  of  all  the  men  that  the  Pagan 
world  ever  produced,  though  sentenced  by  his  own  country- 
men to  death.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  was  condemned  for 
high  treason,  on  charges  of  which,  in  all  coming  times,  he 
will  be  acquitted.  He  had  a  respite ;  and  year  after  year 
rolled  away,  and  again  he  was  permitted  to  revisit  his 
favourite  El  Dorado ;  but  the  sovereign  will  of  the  most 
pedantic  and  self-sufficient  of  monarchs  doomed  him  to  the 
block ;  and  posterity  has  already  determined  the  issue  be- 


23 

tween  him  and  James  I.  Whose  name  shines  with  a  purer 
splendour  than  that  of  Galileo?  Yet  I  need  not  say  that  the 
time  was,  when  scarlet-clothed  cardinals  and  heads  of  uni- 
versities denounced  him;  and  when  he  was  doomed  to 
painful  incarceration,  because  he  dared  to  say  that  the  earth 
revolved  round  the  sun.  "  Why  stand  ye  here  gazing  up 
into  heaven  1"  was  the  text  which  bigotry  and  ignorance 
chose  from  which  to  preach  when  he  was  condemned,  and 
on  which  it  dared  to  rebuke  the  great  spirit  that  was  not 
afraid  to  contemplate  the  wonderful  works  of  God.  I  might 
allude  here,  without  impropriety,  to  the  "  noble  army  of  the 
martyrs,"  to  the  "  confessors'*  and  the  persecuted  of  past 
times ;  to  those  whose  names  were  once  covered  with  re- 
proach and  infamy.  Yet  who  will  live  in  the  long  and 
grateful  recollection  of  mankind  like  they  who  died  for  the 
establishment  of  the  Christian  religion'?  The  work  which 
they  did  was  worth  all  which  it  cost;  and  as  far  as  a  grate- 
ful recollection  will  be  a  recompense,  the  world  will  reward 
them.  Is  it  improper  to  say,  also,  that  if  the  men  chosen 
on  the  banks  of  the  little  lake  of  Genesareth  to  revolution- 
ize the  religion  of  the  world,  and  who  had  endowments 
such  as  no  other  men  ever  had,  had  wished  to  obtain  the 
widest  reputation,  and  to  secure  the  longest  grateful  remem- 
brance, they  chose  the  very  path  which  wisdom  would  have 
selected — the  path  through  reproaches,  and  obloquy,  and 
scorn  1  Columbus,  too,  lived  and  died  amidst  reproaches — 
taunted  as  a  wild  projector,  and  then  abandoned  to  neglect 
and  want  when  success  had  placed  him  at  the  head  of  his 
age.  But  he  will  live — live,  not  because  the  marble  tells  the 
place  where  he  sleeps  in  the  new  world  which  he  disco- 
vered, but  live  in  every  lovely  village,  in  every  growing 
city,  in  every  splendid  capital,  in  every  kingdom  or  republic 
that  shall  ever  rise  up  in  the  vast  hemisphere  which  he  dis- 
closed. Such  men  have  a  reputation  which  never  dies. 
It  grows  brighter;  never  wanes.  Wickedness  may  erect 
a  splendid  monument,  but  who  will  go  and  rebuild  it  when 


24 

fallen  ?  Who  would  construct  the  pyramids  again,  to  per- 
petuate, if  they  could,  the  names  of  their  first  builders? 
Who  will  cut  deeper  the  letters  that  record  the  names  of 
men  of  infamy,  that  they  may  be  transmitted  to  more  dis- 
tant times  ?  None.  But  on  the  humble  tablet  in  the  hills 
of  Scotland,  you  may  see  zeal,  and  devotion,  and  love  going 
from  place  to  place  with  no  hope  of  fame  or  reward,  to 
cut  deeper  the  names  of  Richard  Cameron,  and  of  those  who 
lived  and  died  like  him.  "  Old  Mortality"  is  the  emblem  of 
the  gratitude  and  generous  feeling  of  man.  He  was  not 
the  creation  of  fiction ;  but  had  he  been,  the  fiction  would 
have  been  one  of  the  most  just  and  beautiful  that  the  splen- 
did genius  that  has  now  made  him  immortal  could  have  in- 
vented. He  represents  man — man,  self-denying,  disinterest- 
ed, generous  and  just,  in  this  thing  at  least,  in  keeping  up  the 
remembrance  of  those  whose  names  ought  not  to  be  left 
to  die. 

A  man  who  is  always  defending  his  reputation  will  have 
enough  to  do,  and  will  usually  have  no  reputation  that  is 
worth  the  trouble  of  defence.  He  who  is  willing  to  com- 
mit his  name  and  memory  to  the  course  of  events,  content 
with  the  small  measure  of  notice  which  is  due  to  an  indi- 
vidual, will  not  find  the  world  slow  to  do  him  justice.  Let 
him  do  his  duty;  let  him  lead  an  upright  life;  let  him  make 
the  best  use  of  his  talents,  and  God  will  take  care  of  his 
reputation,  and  will  assign  to  him  the  place,  in  the  estima- 
tion of  mankind,  which  may  be  his  due. 

Of  the  correctness  of  the  principle  which  I  have  been 
endeavouring  to  illustrate,  there  will  probably  be  no  differ- 
ence of  opinion.  It  may  be  asked,  however,  in  what  way 
it  is  that  the  course  of  events  so  shape  themselves  as  to 
do  justice  to  a  man's  reputation,  and  how  it  is  that  his 
name  may  rise  above  calumny  and  detraction?  I  know 
that  a  man  pursuing  an  upright  and  an  honourable  course 
may  be  overwhelmed  with  reproaches.  I  know  that  the 
tongue  of  slander,  whose  "  breath  outworms  all  the  worms 


25 

of  Nile"  may  attack  him.  I  know  that  calumny  may  assail 
him  in  a  form  which  he  can  no  more  meet  than  he  can  meet 
a  "  mist  that  comes  in  from  the  ocean  :"  and  I  am  not  igno- 
rant that,  covered  with  reproaches  and  disgrace,  he  may 
be  left  to  die.  The  sun,  that  seemed  most  bright  when  on 
the  meridian,  may  sink  behind  a  dark  cloud ;  and  it  may 
appear  that  the  name  is  to  be  handed  over  to  perpetual  in- 
famy. How  shall  it  be  rescued'?  What  influences  will 
come  up  to  remove  that  cloud,  and  restore  the  name  to  its 
deserved  lustre?  Can  a  man  safely  commit  his  reputation 
to  the  keeping  of  others,  and  believe  that  justice  will  be  done 
him  when  he  is  dead? 

I  answer  these  questions  by  observing,  that  there  is  that 
on  which  the  calumniated  and  the  injured  man  may  rely. 
Look  at  the  change  which  is  made  in  the  views  entertained 
of  a  man  when  he  dies.  Look  at  the  great  and  beautiful 
law  of  our  nature,  by  which,  the  moment  when  the  soul 
leaves  the  clay  tenement,  the  world  is  ready  to  come  around 
the  cold  remains  of  the  injured  man,  and  to  do  justice  to 
his  name. 

The  grave — how  it  silences  the  voice  of  detraction  and 
calumny;  how  it  changes  faults  to  foibles,  and  errors  to 
weaknesses !  De  morluis  nihil  nisi  bonum,  is  a  sentiment 
that  speaks  out  the  natural  language  of  the  human  heart, 
and  will  do  so  to  the  end  of  time.  It  is  the  operation  of  a 
law  of  our  nature,  by  which  death  brings  out  in  bright 
relief  the  virtue  of  the  departed,  and  covers  up  his  faults; 
— and  the  design  is  as  benignant  as  the  law  is  beautiful. 
It  is,  to  teach  us  to  exhibit  to  others  in  life  no  other  feel- 
ing than  that  which  we  would  love  to  cherish  should  we 
go  and  stand  by  the  grave  of  friend  or  foe — to  teach  us  to 
show  to  others  that  love  "  which  sufFereth  long  and  is  kind  ; 
which  is  not  easily  provoked,  and  which  thinketh  no  evil  ; 
which  beareth  all  things,  endureth  all  things,  believeth  all 
things,  hopeth  all  things," — and  which  we  never  regret  that 
we  evinced  to  friend  or  foe,  when  he  dies. 
4 


26 

"  Oh,  the  grave !  the  grave  !"  (I  use  language  familiar  to 
you  all;)  "It  buries  every  error,  covers  every  defect,  ex- 
tinguishes every  resentment.  From  this  peaceful  bosom 
springs  none  but  fond  regrets,  and  tender  recollections. 
Who  can  look  down,  even  upon  the  grave  of  an  enemy,  and 
not  feel  a  compunctious  throb  that  ever  he  should  have 
warred  with  the  poor  handful  of  earth  that  now  lies  moul- 
dering before  him?  But  the  grave  of  those  we  loved — 
what  a  place  for  meditation  !  There  it  is  we  call  up  in  long 
review  the  whole  history  of  the  truth  and  gentleness,  and 
the  thousand  endearments  lavished  upon  us,  almost  unheard 
in  the  daily  course  of  intimacy ;  there  it  is  we  dwell  upon 
the  tenderness  of  the  parting  scene ;  the  bed  of  death,  with 
all  its  stifled  grief;  its  noiseless  attendants ;  its  most  watch- 
ful assiduities — the  last  testimonials  of  expiring  love — the 
feeble,  fluttering,  thrilling — Oh  how  thrilling  is  the  beating 
of  the  pulse — the  last  fond  look  of  the  glazing  eye,  turning 
upon  us  from  the  threshold  of  existence — the  faint,  faltering 
accent  struggling  in  death  to  give  one  more  assurance  of 
affection.  Ah  !  go  to  the  grave  of  buried  love,  and  medi- 
tate !  There  settle  the  account,  with  thy  conscience,  of 
every  past  endearment  unregarded,  of  that  departed  being, 
who  never,  never  can  be  soothed  by  contrition.  If  thou  art 
a  child,  and  hast  ever  added  a  sorrow  to  the  soul,  or  a  fur- 
row to  the  silvered  brow  of  an  affectionate  parent ;  if  thou 
art  a  husband,  and  hast  ever  caused  the  fond  bosom  that 
ventured  its  whole  happiness  in  thy  arms  to  doubt  one  mo- 
ment of  thy  kindness  or  thy  truth ;  if  thou  art  a  friend,  and 
hast  injured  by  thought,  word,  or  deed,  the  spirit  that  gene- 
rously confided  in  thee ;  if  thou  art  a  lover,  and  hast  ever 
given  one  unmerited  pang  to  the  true  heart  that  now  lies 
cold  beneath  thy  feet,  then  be  sure,  that  every  unkind  look, 
every  ungracious  word,  every  ungentle  action,  will  come 
thronging  back  upon  thy  memory,  and  knock  dolefully  at 
thy  soul;  be  sure  that  thou  wilt  lie  down  sorrowing  and 
repenting  on  the  grave,  and  utter  the  unheard  groan,  and  pour 


27 

the  unavailing  tear,  bitter  because  unheard  and  unavailing."* 
Around  the  grave,  God  intends  that  man  shall  be  willing  to 
do  justice  to  the  memory  of  the  dead ;  and  the  feelings 
which  he  brings  over  the  heart  then  are  one  of  the  opera- 
tions of  that  great  law  which  I  am  illustrating — that  the 
world  will  do  ultimate  justice  to  a  man's  character  and  re- 
putation. 

Further,  time  brings  out  the  character.  It  explains  that 
which  was  dark ;  gives  consistency  to  that  which  seemed 
doubtful;  and  removes  that  which  envy,  and  malice,  and 
hatred  accumulated  around  the  name.  The  zeal  of  party 
leads  men  to  calumniate,  and  envy  attempts  to  destroy  the 
reputation ;  but  the  zeal  of  party  soon  dies  away,  and  the 
next  generation  has  no  occasion  to  envy.  We  never  envy 
the  dead,  but  the  living.  We  feel  no  envy  of  Epaminondas,  or 
Pericles,  or  Fabius.  Not  a  living  bosom  envies  Homer,  or 
Virgil,  or  Tasso,  or  Milton.  No  one  will  ever  envy  Washing- 
ton. You  could  not  constrain  the  next  generation  to  carry 
forward  the  work  of  envy  which  may  be  begun  in  this ;  nor 
would  the  coming  age  turn  aside  from  its  employment  to 
finish  a  work  of  detracton.  Envy  is  the  work  of  one  genera- 
tion only ;  admiration  of  genius,  and  talent,  and  moral  worth, 
is  the  work  of  man  as  man,  and  flows  on  to  all  coming  times. 

There  is  one  other  thought.  It  is  not  human  nature 
only;  not  the  course  of  events  only;  not  the  innate  sense 
of  justice  in  the  human  bosom  only  that  is  set  to  guard 
character,  and  transmit  a  good  name  onward ; — it  is  the 
Great  Being  who  presides  over  all  events,  and  who  gives  to 
man  such  a  reputation  or  reward,  here  or  hereafter,  as  is 
just.  Enduring  reputation  arises  from  the  favour  of  hea- 
ven, and  from  dependence  on  the  Great  Dispenser  of  gifts 
and  crowns,  rather  than  on  man. 

You  are  all  familiar  with  the  interesting  lesson  taught  us 


Irving. 


28 

by  the  great  poet  of  nature,  who  sounded  all  the  depths  of 
the  human  heart. — Said  Wolsey — 

"  —  When  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be, 
And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 
Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of, — say  I  taught  thee. 
Say,  Wolsey — that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory, 
And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honour,. — 
Found  thee  a  way  out  of  his  wreck  to  rise  in; 
A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  miss'd  it. 
Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruin'd  me. 
Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition ; 
By  that  sin  fell  the  angels,  how  can  man  then, 
The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  it? 
Be  just  and  fear  not; 
Let  all  the  ends,  thou  aim'st  at,  be  thy  country's, 
Thy  God's  and  truth's. 

O  Cromwell,  Cromwell, 
Had  I  but  serv'd  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 
I  serv'd  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 
Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies." 

Henry  VIII.  Act  iii. 

You  will  allow  me  to  express  the  same  thought  in  the 
language  of  another,  whose  name,  like  Shakspeare's,  is  to 
go  down  to  latest  times — he  who  desired  to  produce  that 
which  the  "  world  would  not  willingly  let  die." 

"  Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise, 

(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds) 

To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days; 

But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 

And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 

Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears, 

And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     «  But  not  the  praise.' 

f  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 

Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies: 

But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes 

And  perfect  witness  of  God  '  above 

As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed ; 

Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed.'  " 

Lycidas. 


There  is  an  interesting  department  of  my  subject — per- 
haps to  some  whom  I  now  address,  of  much  more  interest 
than  any  thing  to  which  I  have  adverted — which  the  time 
will  scarcely  allow  me  to  enter  on.  It  is  the  inquiry,  What 
fields  are  now  open  for  securing  an  honourable  reputation  ? 
What  new  heights  of  glory  are  there  now  to  climb?  What 
regions  of  science  remain  to  be  explored?  In  what  de- 
partment in  the  arts  can  we  hope  to  perpetuate  the  name 
and  the  memory  ?  Can  any  aspirant  for  fame  in  the  forum, 
hope  to  surpass  Demosthenes  or  Cicero;  or  equal  Burke  and 
Chatham  ?  Can  any  one  in  the  arts,  hope  to  place  his  name 
beside  that  of  Phidias  or  Praxiteles ;  of  Raphael,  or  Mi- 
chael Angelo?  Can  anyone  hope  to  sing  the  praises  of 
heroes  like  him  of  Scio,  or  the  bard  of  Mantua,  or  to  im- 
bed his  name  by  immortal  song  in  the  language  and  litera- 
ture of  his  country,  like  Tasso,  or  Dante,  or  Milton  ?  Is 
there  any  one  now  who  can  open  new  fields  of  discovery 
in  the  heavens  like  those  on  which  the  eye  of  Galileo,  or 
Brahe,  or  Newton,  first  among  mortals,  gazed  ?  Who  is  to 
equal  Mansfield  in  our  father-land,  and  Marshall  in  our 
own,  on  the  bench  ?  Who  is  again  to  lay  the  foundations 
of  science,  broad  and  deep,  in  some  new  Novum  Organon? 

I  answer  these  questions,  which  seem  fitted  only  to  dis- 
hearten and  discourage,  by  observing,  that  the  field  is  by  no 
means  explored ;  the  harvest  is  not  wholly  reaped ;  the  pos- 
sibility of  being  gratefully  remembered  by  those  whose 
good  opinion  is  of  value  is  not  hopeless.  To  those  who  are 
just  entering  on  the  career  of  life,  I  may  observe,  that  they 
start  under  uncommon  advantages.  You  enter  on  your 
way  with  all  the  benefits  of  the  labours,  the  travels,  the 
profound  thinking,  the  patient  sufferings,  the  brilliant 
thoughts,  the  eloquence,  the  patriotism  of  all  past  time. 
You  begin  where  those  whom  the  world  loves  to  remember 
and  to  immortalize,  left  off.  You  begin  with  best  thoughts 
of  the  profoundest  thinkers  of  other  times,  on  science,  go- 
vernment, religion  and  laws,  as  the  elements  on  which 


30 

you  are  to  act.  You  begin  with  the  mariner's  compass, 
the  quadrant,  the  printing-press,  the  blow-pipe,  the  telescope, 
as  the  instruments  by  which  you  may  carry  forward  the 
triumphs  of  science,  of  literature,  and  of  art.  You  gather 
the  fruits  of  all  the  self-denials  and  the  sacrifices ;  the  pro- 
found studies ;  the  skilful  inventions,  and  the  sufferings  of 
past  times.  Every  happy  discovery ;  every  useful  inven- 
tion;  every  improvement  of  the  past,  has  contributed  its 
part  to  the  refinement  and  intelligence  of  the  age  in  which 
you  live.  There  has  not  been  a  philosopher  who  has  not 
thought  for  you ;  not  a  traveller  who  has  not  travelled  for 
you ;  not  a  defender  of  human  rights  who  has  not  bled  for 
you ;  not  a  profound  student  who  has  not  contributed  some- 
thing to  the  general  mass  of  knowledge  which  now  blesses 
your  condition ;  and  not  a  martyr,  the  benefits  of  whose 
death  you  are  not  reaping  in  the  religion  whose  smiles  and 
sunshine  you  now  enjoy.  "  Other  men  have  laboured,  and 
you  enter  into  their  labours."  For  you — if  you  will  have 
it  so — Plato  and  Bacon  lived;  for  you  Galileo  invented  the 
telescope;  Godfrey  the  quadrant;  Gioia  of  Amalfi  disco- 
vered the  properties  of  the  magnet,  and  Fulton  perfected 
the  steam-engine;  for  you,  Newton,  and  Herschell,  and 
Kepler  watched  the  stars  of  night;  for  you  Columbus  dis- 
covered the  new  world  ;  for  you  Washington  and  Lafayette 
fought  the  battles  of  freedom  ;  for  you  Hancock,  and  Henry, 
and  Ames,  and  Adams  roused  the  nation  to  liberty ;  and  for 
you  Marshall  lived  to  explain  the  great  principles  of  the 
constitution.  What  an  inheritance — rich  above  all  the 
wealth  of  Croesus,  and  honourable  above  all  that  coronets 
or  crowns  could  give !  All  in  liberty,  in  science,  in  religion, 
and  in  the  arts  that  is  valuable  is  to  be  intrusted  to  you ; — 
to  you — to  defend,  to  perfect,  to  transmit  to  future  times. 

It  is  much  to  have  such  an  inheritance;  much  at  the  be- 
ginning of  our  way  to  be  placed  on  such  an  eminence.  It 
should  not  discourage  us  as  if  nothing  remained  to  be  done. 
When  these  names  are  looked  at,  it  should  stimulate  us  to 


31 

greater  efforts,  by  showing  us  what  man  may  be,  and  what 
he  is  capable  of  effecting.  Nor  should  we  sit  down  dis- 
heartened, as  if  nothing  remained  to  be  done,  as  Alexander 
did  on  the  throne  of  the  world,  because  there  were  no  other 
worlds  to  conquer.  In  every  field  of  scientific  research, 
and  in  every  department  of  poetry,  eloquence,  and  the  arts, 
there  remains  enough  to  be  done  to  fill  the  highest  measure 
of  honourable  ambition,  or  to  gratify  the  highest  love  of 
investigation.  In  the  science  of  astronomy — vast  as  seems 
our  knowledge — yet  how  little,  comparatively,  do  we  know ! 
We  have  named  a  small  portion  of  the  stars;  we  have  de- 
termined the  distance  and  periods  of  the  worlds  which  com- 
pose the  system  to  which  we  belong ;  we  have  even  suc- 
ceeded— after  ages  of  unsuccessful  effort — in  determining 
the  parallax  of  one — and  but  one — fixed  star!  But  how 
little  is  known  of  those  distant  worlds !  How  little  that  may 
be  known !  For  who  can  tell  what  more  perfect  instru- 
ments; more  patient  observation;  more  profound  calcula- 
tion ;  or  perchance  some  new  system  of  numbers,  that  shall 
be  to  fluxions  what  fluxions  were  to  simple  geometry,  may 
yet  determine  in  respect  to  that  magnificent  array  of  sys- 
tems, that  shall  fill  man  with  more  elevated  conceptions  of 
God !  In  the  sciences  of  chemistry,  of  anatomy,  of  pure 
mathematics;  in  the  application  of  science  to  the  arts  of 
life ;  I  will  add,  in  the  sciences  of  morals  and  theology,  how 
much  yet  remains  to  be  known!  Remember  the  modest 
and  beautiful  declaration  of  the  aged  Newton.  "  I  do  not 
know-what  I  may  appear  to  the  world ;  but  to  myself  I  seem 
only  to  have  been  like  a  boy  playing  on  the  sea-shore,  and 
diverting  myself  in  now  and  then  finding  a  smoother  pebble 
or  a  prettier  shell  than  ordinary,  while  the  great  ocean  of 
truth  lay  all  undiscovered  before  me."*  A  few  shells  have 
been  picked  up  since  his  time,  but  the  great  ocean  of  truth 
remains  still  unexplored. 

*  Brewster's  Life  of  Newton,  pp.  300,  301. 


32 

You  will  ask  me  what  field  is  open  in  this  land,  where  an 
honourable  reputation  may  now  be  gained  1  To  this  ques- 
tion, which  a  noble-hearted  and  ingenuous  youth  would  ask, 
I  would  reply  by  saying,  that  in  this  country,  at  least,  the 
whole  field  is  still  open.  The  measure  of  military  reputa- 
tion is  indeed  filled  up,  and  the  world  will  look  hereafter 
with  fewer  smiles  on  the  blood-stained  hero  than  in  days 
that  are  past.  The  time  is  coming,  also,  and  is  near  at 
hand,  when  a  man  who  attempts  to  defend  his  reputation 
by  shedding  the  blood  of  another,  will  only  exclude  him- 
self from  all  the  expressions  of  approval  and  of  confidence 
among  men.  Reputation  is  not  to  be  gained,  that  will  be 
of  value,  by  brilliant  verse,  that  shall  unsettle  the  founda- 
tions of  faith  and  hope ;  that  shall  fill  the  soul  with  misan- 
thropy, or  that  shall  corrupt  the  heart  by  foul  and  offen- 
sive images.  Sickening  night-shades  enough  of  this  kind 
have  already  been  culled,  and  twisted  around  the  brows  of 
those  great  in  title  or  in  talent.  The  sentiment  has  gone 
forth,  not  to  be  recalled,  that  he  who  is  to  be  held  in  lasting, 
grateful  remembrance,  must  base  his  claims  on  true  virtue ; 
on  tried  patriotism ;  on  a  generous  love  of  the  species ; 
on  the  vindication  of  injured  virtue;  on  great  plans  to  ad- 
vance the  permanent  welfare  of  man. 

With  this  principle  to  act  on,  and  this  end  in  view,  our 
land  presents  a  field  where  to  gain  an  honourable  reputation 
as  wide  and  glorious  as  the  world  has  ever  known.  It  is  a 
land  where  there  is  enough  intelligence  to  appreciate  learn- 
ing and  talent;  and  where  there  is  justice  enough  to  do 
right  to  well-meant  endeavours  to  defend  our  liberties,  or  to 
promote  the  welfare  of  the  race.  It  is  a  land  where,  if  any 
where,  a  man  may  be  sure  that  justice  will  be  done  to  his 
name  while  living,  and  to  his  memory  when  dead.  It  is  a 
land  where  a  noble  deed  will  strike  far  into  coming  times; 
and  where  its  influence  is  to  be  felt  in  far  distant  parts  of 
the  world.     For  God  has  reserved  this  land  as  the  theatre 


33 

where  all  that  is  noble  in  freedom,  pure  in  virtue,  great  in 
benevolence,  lofty  in  patriotism,  and  rich  yet,  we  trust,  in 
eloquence  and  in  song,  is  to  be  displayed. 

Do  you  ask  what  can  be  done  here  to  secure  an  honoured 
name  1  I  answer,  the  liberties  of  our  land,  bought  with  so 
invaluable  blood,  are  to  be  defended,  and  transmitted,  in 
their  purity,  to  other  times — and  he  deserves  a  grateful  re- 
membrance who  contributes  any  thing,  by  private  virtue 
or  public  service,  to  such  a  result.  Every  office  is  open  for 
any  young  American  as  the  reward  of  service  rendered  to 
the  country ;  and  there  is  not  one  in  the  gift  of  the  people 
that  may  not  be  contemplated  as  possibly  within  the  reach 
of  any  aspirant  for  a  grateful  remembrance.  It  is  one  of 
the  glories  of  our  system,  that  the  path  to  the  highest  office 
is  to  be  kept  open  to  any  one  who  may  confer  sufficient  be- 
nefit on  his  country,  to  show  that  it  may  be  a  suitable  re- 
compense for  public  services.  And  no  human  tongue  can 
tell  what  youth  now  before  me  may  yet  enter  on  that  high 
office,  or  in  what  humble  cottage  beyond  the  mountains  the 
infant  may  now  be  sleeping  that  is  yet  to  attain  it. 

"  At  the  very  time  of  the  Congress  of  Aix  la  Chapelle, 
which  settled  the  peace  of  Europe,  in  1747,  (I  use  the  words 
of  the  historian  of  the  United  States,)  the  woods  of  Virgi- 
nia sheltered  the  youthful  George  Washington,  the  son  of  a 
widow.  Born  by  the  side  of  the  Potomac,  beneath  the  roof 
of  a  Westmoreland  farmer,  almost  from  infancy  his  lot  had 
been  the  lot  of  an  orphan.  No  academy  had  welcomed 
him  to  its  shades,  no  college  crowned  him  with  its  honours; 
to  read,  to  write,  to  cipher — these  had  been  his  degrees  in 
knowledge.  And  now,  at  sixteen  years  of  age,  in  quest  of 
an  honest  maintenance,  encountering  intolerable  toil,  cheer- 
ed onward  by  being  able  to  write  to  a  schoolboy  friend, 
'Dear  Richard,  a  doubloon  is  my  constant  gain  every  day, 
and  sometimes  six  pistoles,'  •  himself  his  own  cook,  having 
no  spit  but  a  forked  stick ;  no  plate  but  a  large  chip' — roam- 
ing over  spurs  of  the  Alleghenies  and  along  the  banks  of 
5 


34 

the  Shenandoah ;  among  skin-clad  savages,  with  their  scalps 
and  rattles,  or  uncouth  emigrants  *  that  would  never  speak 
English;'  rarely  sleeping  in  a  bed;  holding  a  bearskin  a 
splendid  couch ;  glad  of  a  resting-place  at  night  on  a  little 
hay,  straw,  or  fodder,  and  often  camping  in  the  forests, 
where  the  place  nearest  the  fire  was  a  happy  luxury — this 
stripling  surveyor  in  the  woods,  with  no  companion  but  his 
unlettered  associates,  and  no  implements  of  science  but  his 
compass  and  his  chain,  contrasted  strangely  with  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  Congress  at  Aix  la  Chapelle.  And  yet  God 
had  selected,  not  Kaunitz,  nor  Newcastle,  not  a  monarch  of 
the  house  of  Hapsburg  nor  of  Hanover,  but  the  Virginia 
stripling,  to  give  an  impulse  to  human  affairs,  and,  as  far  as 
events  can  depend  on  an  individual,  had  placed  the  rights 
and  the  destinies  of  countless  millions  in  the  keeping  of  the 
widow's  son."* 

Every  great  department  of  science  and  literature  also  is 
open  in  this  land ;  and  here  as  elsewhere,  also,  there  is  no 
royal  path  to  a  name  that  shall  live.  Heaven,  too,  never 
conferred  on  any  people  a  land,  or  so  crowned  its  early  his- 
tory with  events  fitted  to  nurture  all  that  is  great  in  the 
human  soul,  as  here. — The  whole  field  of  poetry  is  open. 
Greece  had  its  Hesiod  and  Homer ;  Rome  its  Horace  and 
Virgil;  Italy  has  had  its  Petrarch  and  Dante;  and  we,  in 
common  with  our  father-land,  our  Spenser,  and  Milton,  and 
Cowper;  but  who,  in  our  own  land,  is  to  stand  forth,  and 
on  the  rich  materials  of  our  early  history,  rear  a  name  that 
"  shall  be  more  enduring  than  brass  V9 

We  are,  as  a  people,  young.  We  have  been  much  ridi- 
culed across  the  waters.  Our  science  and  learning  have 
been  spoken  of  with  contempt.  About  five-and-twenty 
years  ago,  it  was  asked,  in  a  periodical  that  aimed  to  give 
law  to  the  reading  world,  "  Who  reads  an  American  book? 


*  Bancroft,  iii.  467,  468. 


35 

There  is,  or  was,"  said  they,  "a  Mr.  Dwight;  we  believe 
his  baptismal  name  was  Timothy."  Since  that  time,  the 
writings  of  that  same  Mr.  Dwight — of  whom  it  was  so 
doubtful  whether  he  was  then  alive — have  been  more  fre- 
quently reprinted  in  Great  Britain  than  any  work  of  theo- 
logy which  the  three  kingdoms  have  produced.  And  need 
I  speak  of  Prescott,  and  Bancroft,  and  Irving,  and  Everett, 
and  Pickering,  and  Duponceau,  and  Bowditch,  names  known 
in  history,  or  eloquence,  or  letters,  and  destined  to  be  where 
history  is  read,  or  eloquence  and  learning  honoured  ?  At 
this  day,  many  of  the  most  popular  and  wide-diffused  books 
in  England  are  American ;  and  there  are  not  a  few  living 
men  in  this  land,  who,  by  their  writings,  are  giving  instruc- 
tion to  tens  of  thousands  in  the  land  where  Milton  and 
Shakspeare  lived. 

No  young  man  ever  could  have  desired  a  wider  field  to 
make  his  influence  felt  for  good  than  the  God  of  Providence 
has  opened  before  him  now  in  this  land.  If  he  will,  his  in- 
fluence may  be  felt  for  purposes  of  good  on  the  other  side 
of  the  globe.  Perhaps  in  humbler  spheres,  but  still  enough 
to  secure  an  honourable  remembrance,  he  may  associate 
his  name  with  that  of  Wilberforce  or  Howard;  he  may 
show  that  he  is  not  unworthy  to  live  in  the  land  of  Frank- 
lin ;  he  may  show  that  he  has  greatness  enough  to  appreci- 
ate the  value  of  the  liberties  defended  by  Washington ;  he 
may  so  live,  that  the  pure,  the  good,  the  fair  will  delight  to 
strew  flowers  on  his  grave,  and  that  the  world  will  not  wil- 
lingly let  his  memory  die.  Here  shall  yet  be  realized  what 
Berkeley  saw  in  almost  prophetic  vision,  when,  though  a 
foreigner,  he  looked  with  generous  and  noble  feeling  on  this 
western  world.  It  was  all  fresh  and  new.  Its  hills  towered 
to  heaven ;  its  rivers  rolled  with  a  majestic  volume  unknown 
across  the  ocean ;  it  was  just  the  place,  reserved  by  heaven, 
when  corruption  and  decay  were  enstamped  on  all  the  old 
world,  for  poetry,  and  song,  and  liberty,  and  science,  and 


36 

the  arts,  and  pure  religion  to  take  up  their  abodes.     Filled 
with  these  great  anticipations,  he  sang : — 

"In  happy  climes,  the  seat  of  innocence, 

Where  nature  guides  and  virtue  rules; 
Where  men  shall  not  impose  for  truth  and  sense 

The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools: — 

There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age, — 

The  rise  of  empire  and  of  arts, — 
The  good  and  great  inspiring  epic  rage — 

The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 

Not  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay ; 

Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young, 
When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  her  clay, 

By  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way, 

The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day, 

Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last." 


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